A Girl From District 2
by and it feels like finally
Summary: "I still have a lot of growing up to do. I have to learn to work. I have to learn to fight. And I have to learn to play the games."
1. Training

**_Hello :) I've recently become obsessed with HG fanfic, and these characters in particular. I'm sorry for the shortness of this chapter, but they will get longer and better, as I will try to not write at midnight, and also she will grow up so I will not have to attempt to write like an eight year old, which is hard. Please review! :) x_**

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><p>I hear a faint thud as the knife reaches the target.<em> I'm getting good at this<em>, I think to myself. And I have 4 years to get better.

Just like a lot of the rich children, I'm being trained early. Some of us get to start on their eighth birthdays here in District 2. Mine was 3 months ago, and I'm already better than most of the 9 year olds. I sometimes think it's because I don't care. I was never raised to.

Most children have families. They have a Mummy and a Daddy and a brother or sister who love them very much. It gets harder as we grow up, though, much harder. Even though I'm 8, apparently I still have a lot of growing up to do. I have to learn to work. I have to learn to fight. And I have to learn to play the game.

I don't have a proper family. I had a sister when I was little, but she went away. She went to play a game, apparently. A game in the Capitol. My Dad went to work as a peacekeeper in another district. He used to own this big weapon factory, but he did something bad and had to go for 8 whole years. There's only 1 more year left until he comes back, which doesn't sound like a lot, but it is. I can't remember what district he went to, though. I don't really know what a peacekeeper is, either, but they are important. That's why we have places that they train here. But it's not the same training as me. I'm training for a game, the same one as my sister. She didn't train properly, though, so she's still playing. My Mum is the only one left here in District 2. She doesn't look after me though, not like the rest on the mums in our village. She never said it was dangerous to play with knives, or that I shouldn't hurt other people. The only things she ever told me were to go to training every day, and to be strong.

"Okay everyone, tidy your equipment away and go home," says the training instructor. As I pull the knife out of the centre of the target, he looks at me, giving a small, satisfied nod. I guess I pleased him today.

"Hey there, want a hand with that?" a tall boy who looks a few years older than me asks. He looks strong. Really strong. He could probably put it away a lot faster than me._ But I'm strong too_, I remember.

"No, I'm fine," I reply. He shrugs and walks off, whilst I try to fold up the stand the target board was on. Needless to say, it's harder than it looks. I manage in the end, though, and but it into the cupboard, but slide the slender knife into the pocket of my trousers. I don't want to use it, of course, but I've become attached to this knife recently. I think it's pretty. The silver metal shines in the darkening winter night as I walk back home. There are pretty swirly engravings on the handle, and the blade is slim, coming to a sharp point at the end. I like the feel of it in my hand, I decide.

During this short walk home, my mind keeps wandering back to the boy who talked to me at the end of training. I recognise him from school, and I think his name begins with a 'c', like mine. It was strange having someone I don't really know talk to me. I don't really have friends. I don't need them. At school, I learn. I learn as much as I can so I can be as clever as possible. I sometimes talk to the girl who sits next to me though. Marietta, I think her name is. She's pretty, with curly blonde hair, and smiles a lot. I don't understand why people smile, sometimes, when it's obvious they're not happy. She's got quite a lot of friends, though. Maybe she smiles to be popular. The boy smiled, too. He smiled as he was turning away from me.

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><p>As the weeks pass, I get better and better at training. The instructor has told me to start training in other areas now, like running, not just knife throwing. I'm getting quite good at that, too, but not as good as the others, especially the older ones. The boy sometimes runs past me as I'm going round the circle. Apparently I'm going to be good in the game. I don't know what kind of game you need a knife for, but it sounds like a fun one. Maybe I'll get chosen for it, someday. But not for another 4 years at least. When we are 12 years old, our name goes on a piece of paper, and then, if we're lucky, someone reads it out, and we get to go to the capitol to play. A lot of the time though, other people, usually much, much older than me, choose to go instead of the person who got picked.<p>

I reach the end of the 10 laps I was set to do, gasping and out of breath. The 9 year old I was racing finishes just after me, and as I'm receiving praise from my instructor, she gives me a scowl and walks away. I tie my dark hair back into a ponytail and walk off towards the targets. I take the knife - my knife - out of my pocket and throw it towards the nearest dummy, where it sinks deep into where its heart would be. As the weapon flew through the air, it collided with a sharp metal spear coming from the other direction, knocking the spear from its path. I spot the boy standing quite a few metres away, not bothering to retrieve his weapon from the ground, staring, looking at me with some sort of incredulity. The rest of the training class are looking at me like that, too.

Not knowing what else to do, I walk over to the dummy and retrieve my knife from it, then start dismantling some of the targets I put up at the start of the session. It is almost the end, after all. Everyone else seems to follow my lead when the instructor tells them to, and as I'm folding up the last one, the boy comes over.

"That was... impressive," he says, in a voice that seems a little too friendly for his size. I shrug indifferently, like Mum told me to._ 'Don't show emotion to strangers'_, she said. Seeming to sense the fact I'm not going to say anything else, he breaks the silence. "I'm Cato." he offers his hand for me to shake. I take it.

"Clove."

And I find it hard to suppress my smile.


	2. Mountain

_**A/N – well, here's another chapter! Sorry it took so long, I planned to update every Friday, but it's been over three weeks so that plan sort of failed. I don't know why it took me three weeks, but it was half term and I am probably the biggest procrastinator in the world. Anyway, enjoy, and please review! :D xx**_

Chapter 2 - Mountain.

Most children, when they reach the age of 9 and are told an in-depth history of the rebellion and the Hunger Games, are scared at first. They don't want to die. Then they are told about how brilliant it is to win, and they feel much better about it. It always makes them train harder, as well.

I'm never scared. I can't wait until I'm eligible for the reaping, and I get to ride the train to the Capitol. It's incredible, apparently. The buildings are bright, bright colours, far more interesting than the dull mountainsides of District 2. I wish I was there. But if I just wait nine more years and volunteer, then I will be. I'll be a victor; I'll be living in Victor's Village and riding the train to the Capitol whenever I want. I'll be _special_, I'll be _famous_, not just the quiet girl who can throw knives.

I remember last year I was told I had a lot of growing up to do. I thought it was strange, because I was eight and I was grown up enough to start training. But now I understand. I thought it was just a game before. Honestly, I don't know why the older ones kept it from me. Why would you hide something as exciting as that? I feel a bit sorry for the ones who don't win, though. Who were young, but still older than me. It's their own fault. They should have trained harder. I bet I could win. Even though I'm still too young.

My sister was one of those people. I always thought she was still playing. I don't mind that much, though. I never knew her, so I don't miss her. It's simple. She was one of the people who got killed in the bloodbath, I think, which is rare for someone of our district. She was weak, I suppose. Just like so many others we see on the television every year. I wish I knew my sister. But to me, she was just another tribute.

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><p>The early morning sun, a harsh shade of pale yellow, is slowly coming over the horizon, washing away the darkness with cold spring light. Long, thin shadows are being cast upon the ground by the trees I walk past on my way to training. I slide the thin, sharp blade of my knife along my fingertips, admiring it, like I do every day. I wonder, if I do get reaped, whether I would be able to have it in the arena or not. My guess is the latter. I hear the Capitol are strict about things like that.<p>

Bare footsteps upon the gravel-ridden ground are approaching behind me. I turn to see a tall, blonde figure come into view. Cato.

"What are you doing here? Your training's on the other side of the Justice Building." I give him an accusing, inquisitive stare. It's odd for one of the most talented fighters in District 2 to simply miss training, especially on the day before the reaping.

"I - I need to talk to you."

We used to talk a lot, me and him. We used to spend a lot of time figuring out inventive ways to decapitate the dummies with our weapons of choice in training. We used to discuss how we would win the games. But when you turn 12 here, you go to another training centre, one with better facilities.

"About the reaping," he says, "You're the only person I know who I think would understand." From what I know, he's a lot like me. He doesn't really talk to people that much. Not unless he needs to.

"What's wrong?" I ask. It's weird: I actually want to know his answer. I've never felt concerned about someone else before.

"I'm scared, Clove. Scared they'll pick my name out of that bowl tomorrow."

"Your name's only in there once, they're not going to pick you. Besides, I thought you wanted to be in the games."

He looked at me like I was stupid. I am 3 years younger than him, though. He can't expect me to understand everything. "I do want to. More than anything. But not yet. I don't want the Capitol to tell me what to do. I want to do it myself, in 6 years time. Then I'll definitely win, Clove, and we'll be victors. Like we always said."

"I bet you could still win now." I smile at him, and he laughs at me. A friendly laugh, but like I'm just a child who has no idea. "Anyway, even if your name does get read out, people will volunteer. They always do."

"But they didn't for your sister."

We're both silent after that. Then I realise the time, and quickly start running towards the training centre, shouting a goodbye behind me.

When I reach the training centre, the instructor says "You're late. 20 laps. I'll time you."

I'm already a little out of breath from running most of the way here, but I don't complain. You need to do a lot of running in the games, after all. It will only make me stronger.

Training continues as normal. I run. I throw knives. I come 5th in the whole group running race. I leave to go to school. School is normal, too. I don't talk to anyone except to answer a question; I like it that way. We go over the different industries of the other Districts, and why they are important to us and why we are important to them and why we are all important to the Capitol. I'll be in the Capitol one day. I know I will.

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><p>Instead of going straight home after school, I start to walk up the mountain nearest to where I live. Once I've walked for a few minutes, I reach a ledge upon which I can see all the way to the quarries past the justice building. It's pretty here, in District 2. Especially at sunset. My Mum should be wondering where I am, since I'm usually home by now, but she probably isn't. She only wants to know how I did in training. That's all she cares about, really. That I train so I can win the games. That and my sister, Camilia. She's only a few months old, so I don't blame Mum for wanting to take care of her. Except I do. Because she doesn't take care of me. When Dad wasn't here and my older sister had died, she was sad. Really sad. We had money, so I was fine. I never went hungry or cold, but I never had a mother either.<p>

Now Dad's back, she spends all of her time not taken up by looking after my sister with him. Time that she should be spending with me. One night, about 5 months ago, I tried to fix it. Mum was fast asleep, and Dad was lying next to her. Carefully, silently, I slid my knife out of my pocket and pressed it to his throat. I'd seen it done on telly before, in the games. It's simple. One girl from District 5 made an alliance with about a third of the tributes, and slit their throats when they were sleeping. I thought it was just pretend, when I watched it. I thought it was just for fun. That they got chosen and were playing because we would enjoy watching it. I always loved watching. Loved watching the tribute numbers slowly dropping, as they got maimed in different ways. The bloodbath is always the best. Mum never watches it with me though. She puts the telly on, she has to, and lets me watch it while she turn her chair around and stars at the wall, listening to me laughing in the background. It wasn't pretend. I know that now. It must be amazing, to hold a weapon that would take you to victors village, to as much money as you could ever dream of. To the Capitol. That'll be me, in 9 years, when I volunteer. I can't wait to take part in that bloodbath, to kill those other tributes. I just couldn't kill my father though. Because as I was about to sink the knife into his neck, he opened is eyes. He didn't scream. I was quite proud of him for that. But those eyes, those deep green eyes, they were the exact replica of my own. I couldn't kill myself. I'd never do that (I couldn't win if I was dead now could I?). And part of me is him. So I slowly moved the knife away from his open flesh, put it back into my pocket, and looked at him straight in the eye. The I spoke in a voice softer than a whisper. "Don't tell Mum. Understand?" He just stared at me, looking intrigued, as I walked out of the room.

There's still a faint red line on his neck, but it's not _that_ noticeable. Not too noticeable for Mum to see, anyway. He walks warily around me now. Like he doesn't trust me. It's not surprising. I don't trust him, either. Whatever stupid thing he did at that weapon factory that got him sent away resulted in me having no family. I can't ever forgive him for that. And I sometimes think that having a family might be the only thing I need. Besides winning, of course.

I curl the dry strands of grass around my fingers and rip them out of the earth. I crush them in my hand until they're broken. _If only I could do that with people. _But I can't. Not only because it's basically illegal here, killing another person, but I just don't have the strength. With a knife, I can slaughter. Well, I've only practised on training dummies, but in 9 years, then I'll be able to. I'll feel soft, warm flesh underneath the blade instead of material. I'm not strong though, not like some people. I can only lift four out of the five weights we have at our training centre. Some people, especially the sorts of boys who volunteer each year, look like they could crush your skull with one touch, no problem. Cato's starting to look like that, a bit. He was always strong when we trained. And good at sword fighting. You have to be strong to hold one up. That's mainly why I stick to knives.

"Clove?" I turn round to see the same tall blonde boy from this morning walk towards me through the darkening night, only now he has a smile on his face. A smile that looks like relief.

"What are y-" I try to speak, but his loud voice overpowers my own.

"Guess what? In training, I heard these guys arguing about which one of them was going to volunteer this year. It doesn't matter, Clove. It doesn't matter if I get reaped. I'm safe this year and I can win when I volunteer myself."

As soon as he finished, I opened my mouth. "What are you doing here?"

"I just came t-" His voice is weaker this time.

"I don't care what you came to do. This is my place, Cato, _mine_. You can see almost the whole district from up here."

"What would the peacekeepers do if they saw you out here? I'm not sure we're allowed to be out on the mountain. Just be quiet and go home."

"Home? I feel more at home here or in the training centre than I do in that house of mine. You wouldn't understand that though, would you?" He's close to the edge of this little ledge now. So close that with one gentle touch of my finger he'd be falling onto the dark ground far beneath. Falling into oblivion. It's so tempting, just to do it. Nobody would know it was me. They might not even find the body for a while. And if people ask, I can just pretend. Pretend it wasn't me. I'm rather good at pretending, actually. Especially when it gets me something I want. But I hesitate for just a second. A second too long. And he pushes past me and starts to walk away, towards the path back down the mountain. His breathing is quicker than before, and his face is red. I think he was scared. He should be.

"You should stop acting like you're better than everybody else, Clove. The Capitol's in charge. Remember that," he turns round and says to me, when he's halfway down the pathway. "You may be good with knives, and you may be able to win the games when you're older, but you don't own the whole of Panem."

I will someday though Cato.

_I will. _


End file.
